


James Bond Did Not Get Sick

by teatearsandbbc



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, James Bond is a crybaby, James Bond is a little shit, M/M, Q is a good boyfriend, Q is also very patient, Sick Fic, Slight Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatearsandbbc/pseuds/teatearsandbbc
Summary: James Bond did not get sick. He got shot, tortured, stabbed, punched, kicked, bitten, poisoned, had holes drilled into his head, broke bones, and even, on one memorable occasion, came out worse in a fight with a honey badger, of all things. But he did not get sick.What this meant was that when he did catch a cold, he was the whiniest, snottiest, clingiest, and most needy excuse for a human Q had ever encountered.





	James Bond Did Not Get Sick

James Bond did not get sick. He got shot, tortured, stabbed, punched, kicked, bitten, poisoned, had holes drilled into his head, broke bones, and even, on one memorable occasion, came out worse in a fight with a honey badger, of all things. But he did not get sick.

What this meant was that when he _did_ catch a cold, he was the whiniest, snottiest, clingiest, and most needy excuse for a human Q had ever encountered.

“James, you have almost died more times than perhaps anyone else in the history of humankind has. I would think you would be familiar enough with the sensation to know that a common cold is hardly life-threatening,” Q said.

“I would rather be shot again,” Bond croaked. He was wrapped in a blanket, and while he couldn’t possibly fit in Q’s lap, he was doing an admirable job of it nonetheless. Q was sitting sideways in an overlarge sofa chair, his legs draped over the arm, and James was curled up on top of him, his head on Q’s shoulder and his lower legs tucked snugly in behind Q’s thighs. The double-o agent was breathing through his mouth due to a stuffed-up nose, and his breath puffed against Q’s collarbone, hot and damp.

“Haven’t you ever had a cold before?” the quartermaster asked, running a light hand over Bond’s blanket-swathed back.

“Q, you have read my file,” his agent said peevishly. “You know damn well I do not get sick.” 

“Well I’m terribly sorry to tell you this, but this is, in fact, what we mortals call illness,” Q said, trying hard to keep the laugh out of his voice. James didn’t say anything, but only buried his face in Q’s neck.

Just then, Q’s mobile started ringing. In spite of James’s annoyed grunts, Q dug the phone out of his pocket to answer.

“Hello, Moneypenny. How are you?” he said cheerfully as James unwound his arms from the blanket to wrap them around Q’s ribcage, pressing their chests closer together.

“Oh, can’t complain too much,” Eve said lightly. “Better than you right now, I’d wager. How is he?”

“Well, I had to spend two hours convincing him that he hadn’t been poisoned, and once I got him persuaded, he took up the notion that he’s dying of the plague, so about as well as we’d expect,” Q answered. Bond turned his head and purposely wiped his nose on Q’s t-shirt. The quartermaster only rolled his eyes. 

“I hope he gets well soon,” Eve said. “God only knows what sort of state the world will be in if we’re missing our quartermaster and Her Majesty’s favorite agent for too long.”

“Somehow, I suspect you’ll struggle through,” Q said. James started coughing, just a little too loudly for Q to believe it was genuine. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Sorry, Eve, I have a clingy and feverish assassin on my lap. I’ll call you back when I’ve convinced him that a cold doesn’t mean he’s dying.”

“Take care of him. And best of luck,” Eve said, and hung up the phone.

Q laid the phone on the back of the chair and wrapped his other arm around the man clinging to him.

“Eve sends her best,” he said, carding fingers through James’s short hair. James only mumbled something indistinguishable against his collarbone. “What was that?” Q asked. James turned his head again. 

“I said I feel dreadful,” James said. “How do people cope with this?”

“I used to get colds far worse than this every winter,” Q told him, running light fingers over the man’s broad shoulders. “I was never very hearty, and I had what the doctors of the time liked to call ‘weak lungs’ when I was a child. I would get these horrible, racking coughs and would rub my nose raw and bleeding blowing it so much. My chest would be sore from coughing all the time, sneezing would start nosebleeds, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything but lie in bed for days, drinking soup and reading.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” James groaned. “This is going to kill me, I’m sure it is. Oh god, Q, make sure M doesn’t write my obituary this time. That tripe she banged out last time was unendurable. I’ll haunt your servers if you let her print something like that again.”

“Well I’m sure I won’t have to, seeing as you aren’t dying,” Q told him. James stiffened suddenly and shoved away from Q. For a moment, Q thought James was angry at him, but before he even had time to blink, James sneezed three times in a row, his face contorting into an expression that shouldn’t be possible on someone as unfailingly suave as 007 prided himself on being.

Q stretched an arm out behind him and plucked a tissue from the box, handing it to James, who blew his nose and then rounded on Q. He swung his leg over so he was straddling Q’s torso and put his hands on the chair arm on either side of Q’s head, penning him in. Then he leaned down until his face was only a few inches from the quartermaster’s.

“My throat hurts,” he snarled, “and my nose is both stuffed up and running. It’s also rubbed raw on these bloody Kleenex. I can’t go more than two minutes without sneezing, which hurts my chest. I’ve been defibrillated, shot, stitched up, and beaten with a stick and I can honestly tell you it feels better than this. I can’t think because my head is so full of snot, I can’t hear a thing because my ears are stopped up, and if an assassin came for me right now, I would honestly probably let them because I feel so bloody awful. Everyone from the queen of England to the bloody janitor at MI6 agrees I’m the most dangerous man in the world. So don’t patronize me, and don’t tell me again I’m not dying because it sure as hell feels like I am.”

The whole speech probably would have been much more menacing, Q thought, if the world’s most dangerous man’s nose hadn’t been red at the tip while he was delivering it. As it was, Q merely blinked placidly up at the man hovering over him.

“Very well,” he said calmly. “You’re dying. Would you like some soup?”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading! This is my first time writing Bond/Q fic, but when I saw the prompt, "I have a clingy and feverish assassin on my lap. I’ll call you back when I’ve convinced him that a cold doesn’t mean he’s dying," I just absolutely had to write it with these two. They are my actual favorites and I will never get enough of these domestic fools. Thanks to doctorcaseyholmes for betaing! She has betaed everything I've ever written, actually, and I'm so thankful she hasn't gotten sick of reading my nonsense yet!
> 
> If you like the fic, I love getting kudos! I love comments even more. If you'd like to talk to me about this fic, any of my other fics, your headcanons about Bond and Q (they absolutely 100% exist in the Sherlock universe Spectre is proof of that I will not be dissuaded), or how it is that polar bears can have black skin and clear fur and still appear white, email me at teatearsandbbc@gmail.com.


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